


Repetitive

by jenni3penny



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 16:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20361805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenni3penny/pseuds/jenni3penny
Summary: "It's just that they're right, what they say about practice - and he's gotten really good at watching the women he loves die horribly." Gibbs goes back to Rachel for advice...





	Repetitive

He hasn't slept in two nights and the third isn't looking all that kind to him either, not considering the dream that plays on repeat whenever exhaustion starts to drag him down and under. Not considering how much blood it involves, how glossy dark her eyes get as they lose focus, how ghastly pale her lips get.

He'd fallen asleep on the couch, just entirely too tired to keep pushing forward, and it had only taken forty five minutes for him to wake with a gasp of breath and the feeling of her blood slicking his fingers. He can still see the stain he puts through the blonde of her hair each time he pushes it back off her face to kiss her and it's not fading, that color.

It just keeps getting more vibrant.

So he starts sketching out woodwork plans at eleven forty at night, succumbing to the unencumbered comfort of his quiet basement and shoving away the image of her bleeding out in his arms. He has a cup of coffee in front of him, a generous splash of whiskey in it just to take the edge off. The pencil in his hand has broken twice at the tip, just from the heavy force he's using.

Just because he's awake doesn't mean his mind stops looping the image through his brain.

She shakily apologizes for dying every time he dreams it and he doesn't know how else to tell her that it isn't her fault.

It could never be her fault.

It's just that they're right, what they say about practice - and he's gotten really good at watching the women he loves die horribly.

***

"What's wrong?" she answers impatiently, her Caller ID telling her it's him before he can even speak. And she doesn't mean to instantly worry but history has taught her to expect the bad before feeling blessed by the good and, really, a call from Gibbs could also be anywhere in between.

"Nothin', Doc." Hell, she hasn't heard that voice in just over a year, that tone he uses when he has plenty to say but doesn't actually plan to say a half of it. He's all tonal inference, implications, and near grunts of agreement. Some things were never meant to change and Jethro Gibbs is one of them. The universe needs a certain number of constants and he's become one of her most reliable.

Rachel rubs her empty hand over her face, pressing beneath her left eye as she exhales a sigh. "It's five in the damn morning, Gibbs. Don't - "

"Want coffee?"

"Of course I do - it's _five_ in the morning." She finally laughs into the conversation, unable to really argue against how kind and concerned the offer had sounded. "What's going on?"

"Havin' dreams." And he sounds exhausted by them, dragged out and ragged. She wouldn't categorize his voice as weak, but definitely tired. He often sounds tired when he feels the need to call her. Though, this does feel far more personal than expected and she can't imagine why, these days, he would call her instead of his own therapist. "Same as… just wanted to run something by you. Sounds stupid now that I say it out loud, though."

"Why didn't you call your doctor? I mean, your _actual_ doctor," she nudges softly. He's been seeing a colleague of hers for more than a year - he'd even been the one to tell her as much.

He chuckles over the line but it's a more caustic sound than she would expect. It's wry humor, if any humor at all. "You're better equipped?"

"Dr. Confalone is excellent at what she does, Gibbs. She's got a wonderful clinical history."

"Grace wasn't a part of the past," he hushes, voice getting incrementally quieter as he gets closer to telling her the truth. "And she's too close to the present."

"Ahh… So it's Kate related?"

Sometimes it feels like all their interactions are Caitlin related...

(Sometimes, if they just keep talking like this, they can pretend she's just in the other room and not long dead for over a decade. God, it's been so long but it's only been a heartsick minute too.)

"No," he grunts back at her, his pitch irascible and annoyed. She can hear him exhale hard over the line, though. She can near feel him give in to her. "Not really. But, yeah, I guess."

_Yeah_, he guesses. It usually is when it comes to him calling with a voice this quiet. Otherwise he's all business and authority. He's only this hushed when he's got his ghosts just at his shoulder. He's only this crumpled sounding with her when Kate's memory is curled around his arm, cheek pressed to his shoulder.

The phone goes wedged between her ear and her shoulder as she grabs at the throw blanket that she'd left puddled on the couch the night before. Instead of stretching out she aims for the large chair that's angled on the other side of the coffee table. "What sort of dreams, Gibbs?"

She can almost hear him shrug as he exhales, the image of it surprisingly clear in her mind. "Bad one. What'd Kate used to call them?"

Her face pinches into a half frown before she realizes, voice flat, "You mean nightmares?"

"Naw, it was something else… something…"

Rachel lifts her head, feeling sadness crowd the lines around her eyes as her husband moves into the room, a cup of coffee leading his steady approach. She takes it gratefully, drawing her legs up into the over-stuffed chair as she sighs. "I don't remember, Gibbs. I'm sorry."

A sound of disappointed agreement meets her apology and she wishes her answer had been different as he speaks, voice garbled quiet. "Me either."

***

It's the first time she's seen him with a (beautiful) woman outside of work, really. At least one that's not likely case involved, one that he's very obviously comfortable with. She berates herself for being even remotely surprised by it, even more so for having a feeling of unexplained betrayal.

He owes her nothing beyond their friendship, she realizes that… Her conscious mind does, anyhow.

But it doesn't stop her from flinching her glance back down over her coffee as his favorite waitress leaves their table to put in their orders. Jack reaches for the sugar and dumps more into her cup, very obviously sulking as she exhales.

Days of not telling him everything (_Every. Thing_.) are taking their toll on her emotionally and she's not entirely sure how to process this new information. She's definitely not sure how to swallow the bitter bile of jealousy as she chances another look down the diner, thankful that he's got his back to her.

The woman he's with scrunches her face up as she speaks to him but it's a cute and teasing little movement, something personal and private to the two of them. It deftly implies that this woman has no qualms about giving him a good dose of harassment, despite his usual gruff manner. Which means she's somehow wedged her way past that often impenetrable exterior and Jack is instantly wary of her.

Anyone that can laugh so easily after so obviously teasing him?

Rather, a _woman_…

A woman who can so blasély laugh and roll her eyes at him has already passed the Gibbsian character test and placed fairly high in the proverbial rankings.

So she ignores the nagging voice in her brain that reminds her that it's not even seven in the morning yet and likely breakfast is more than _just_ breakfast.

Rather, she tries to ignore it while she watches another woman lean across a diner table toward him and whisper something that has him leaning closer just to hear.

Suddenly, despite the gallon of sugar, her coffee tastes sour and acidic in her mouth.

***

"Eat something."

"Not necessary." He'd only ordered it out of habit, a social nicety to follow her own request when Elaine had come by their table. Now a plate of eggs and toast sits in front of him and he couldn't want anything less.

"Listen, _you_ called me out here," she demands, jabbing the fork tines in his direction before circling them around in the air. "Eat and tell me about these dreams."

Gibbs shrugs and reaches for a piece of toast, he lifts it halfway to his mouth but pauses as he shrugs. "S'just one. Same one."

She nods as she stabs at one of the blueberries on a generous stack of pancakes. "That's significant."

He puts the toast down while she starts digging into her breakfast, hoping she doesn't notice that he never took a bite. Instead he lifts his coffee and nods. "Figured. Considering."

"Is it Caitlin?"

"No," he says just against the lip of the cup, taking a slow swallow of coffee, "she woulda liked her, though."

"Damn it, I knew it was a woman. Not much else was gonna shake you this hard."

"_Doc_." He makes a face at her before taking a drink of his coffee, one he knows she's seen plenty of times.

"Am I _wrong_? Why won't you tell Grace?" she asks sincerely, a light tip of concern in her voice as she leans forward.

"They're friends," he offers, even knowing that's not the reason. He trusts Grace and her professionalism deeply, no question about it. It's not about them knowing each other, being friends. It's not just Grace and it's not just Jack. For some reason the dream has him so deeply rattled that he has to consider the warning way that it's all happened before, regardless of how silly it may sound or feel. He needs someone who's lived it too. "Not just that, either. The dream is…"

"Personal." Rachel nods into the pause, taking a bite and chewing amidst his answering silence.

It takes an internal push for him to open his mouth and offer up information but he knows that's what she's waiting for... "Awhile before Kate died I dreamed that Ari had shot her."

"The same way?" she asks cautiously and the way her voice hedges brings him to the assumption that she still can't often think about _how_ her sister died.

He can't ever seem to forget it.

"Had that same dream a couple times." Autopsy in the dark, her body so ashen pale... "I shoulda seen it coming."

"Can I ask you a personal question?"

His face goes blank, brow arched. "You gonna ask it regardless?"

"If you can't talk to Grace why not Jacqueline Sloane? She's been with you guys awhile and she excels at assisting with post traumatic - "

Her hijacked breath and stuttered pause is very obviously a result of the sudden glare he's inevitably passing her way. He can feel it on his face, truth pressing his lips together, eyes thinned.

Why not Jacqueline Sloane? _Why not?_

_Why not, Gibbs? She'd be good for you_.

He doesn't think she's ever realized exactly how much she sounds like her sister (because he still hears her sister, every so often). He closes his eyes sometimes when she's teasing him just to momentarily have Kate back. But having her back, even just by the way Rachel accents one particular syllable, or laughs through her nose... _fuck_, it still costs him something private, something intimate.

He misses his friend… That has _not_ changed.

"_Oh_…" she exhales slowly, thin shoulders lowering as she stretches back in the diner booth. "Now, see, I should have seen _that_ one coming."

He just blinks at her, watches her features soften sympathetically. "You know Jack?"

"_Jack_?" she mocks across the table quietly, putting some heat into her voice, exhaling slowly as she gives him a knowing look and drops her fork. He simply rolls his eyes at her taunt, tries to ignore the way it tweaks his gut to hear her say the other woman's name. Rachel shakes her head in negation before shrugging. "I know her work. Some of her methods for inducing breakthroughs are… probably exactly your style, actually. Questionable but effective."

"She's a pain in my ass."

She smiles broad and full, eyelids dipping so that her lashes go dark and her eyes thin in that distinctly _Todd_ way. "And you're terrified."

Gibbs makes a face at her. "I'm being realistic."

"You're being a coward." The accusation is succinct and flatly brutal but she doesn't even blink in making it and, hell, he's reminded once again where Little Sister got her backbone. "And Kate would tell you the same. You think a dream is going to change a damn thing? You think Haswari wouldn't have killed her if - wait, you're telling me that you're not even considering seeing this woman because - "

"Do I get a chance to - "

"Not if you're about to tell me - "

"I can't keep watching her die," he finally snaps, still bristling under the summation that his emotional silence, his forced self control, is a variation of cowardice. To hell with the fact that she's probably _right_, he doesn't need to hear it over again, not in public. And he certainly doesn't need to hear Ari Haswari's name from her mouth again. He always hates hearing Rachel say _that_ name and mainly because it always makes his throat close up with guilt, lungs clenched. She shouldn't have ever had to know the name, let alone speak it. "I _can't_, Doc."

"Have you considered watching her live? Maybe _with_ you? Not just parallel to you?"

"Every day." He can't look at her while he answers, staring blankly over his coffee cup. He can't meet those eyes. "She's right in front of me."

"_Coward_. She's right in front of you." Rachel accuses again, though her voice is softer this time, more melancholy than he'd expect. "And that's what Kate would say and you know it."

"I miss her." He misses being annoyed by her, being proud of her, making her laugh. Maybe finding that in Jack is what makes it all the harder.

"Sometimes I feel like you and I are the only two people in the world who really remember her." He thinks that she sounds just about right. He thinks there are days when he stops and stares at her picture on the memorial wall because it feels as though it's been too long since anyone has said her name out loud. "What would Jack say if she were me and it was someone else?"

Jesus, what would _Jack_ say? Aplenty. "She'd tell me to get my head outta my ass."

"Well, you're right." The bittersweet smile on her lips makes him swallow hard, diverting his eyes to her hands and the way she pushes her half finished plate away. "Kate probably would've liked her."

***

She wouldn't say that Tim is an _easy_ mark.

But he is beautifully honest most all of the time.

"You mean Rachel?"

"Hush," she tugs at his forearm and steps closer into him, leaning them together as they head down the hall. "That her name?"

McGee just snorts amusement as he continues walking, not even really seeming surprised by her asking after the woman that had followed Gibbs into NCIS. She'd seen the brunette stop and chat with both Tim and Ellie and it had been hours before she could snag one of them away from Gibbs and do a little reconnaissance.

"Rachel Cranston. She's - "

"A psychiatrist," Jack interrupts lightly, her steps faltering her back a little behind him as she registers the familiar name. She can hear the surprise in her own voice, a brow arched as she mentally tries to catalog the cases Cranston has signed off on for NCIS. At fair few of Gibbs' cases that she can recall…

Tim just shrugs back at her, caught still as he realizes that she's stopped moving. A sort of odd smile takes up half of his mouth and it seems bittersweet, warm but also solemn at the same time. "She's Kate's sister."

"Kate Todd? Interesting…" She steps into moving with him again, catches at his elbow so that she can loop her arm into his. "Gibbs ever date her?"

"Rachel? She's married," Tim shrugs off, their steps falling soft into a rhythmic pattern that has her smiling despite the subject matter. "I don't think he would anyhow. Not… not family, ya know? His relationship with Kate was…"

"_Were_ they in a relationship?"

"Not the way you mean," he denies, face taking on a wistful quality that makes him seem younger, as though re-imagining his memories takes away the years as he slows. "It was a lot like the way he is with you, actually."

The way he is with her? What _way_?

"Like what?" Sloane asks quietly, jaw lifting as she waits out McGee's grin.

"It always felt like a… a prelude, being with the two of them." That same look of almost wishful longing claimed his face again, as though he wanted back into the comfort of the past for awhile. She couldn't blame him for that, not at all. There were days she missed the Mighty Wingo family, her beautifully sweet brood of adopted asshole brothers. There were days she would give up almost anything to be with them again. "Make sense?"

"A prelude to what, Tim?"

"I dunno, Sloane." He flicks her another half grin before reaching for the door handle to the conference room and disentangling them. "Maybe you should tell me."

***

She knew it was serious simply by the fact that he shut the door behind him.

Maybe not serious, so much as personal.

"Years ago I had this dream that kept repeating. One that came true."

"Well, hi there," she greets him, voice warm and purposely soft as she shoves her glasses up into her hair and relaxes against her desk. "Waxing poetic?"

"Being perfectly serious." His body folds down into the chair across from her and she blinks, noting how tired he seems as he lets his weight settle.

"I see that," she admits, watching him shrug down and drop his head back onto the low chair back as she stands. She moves tentatively around the left of her desk and from her vantage point she can see him swallow, enjoys watching the valve of his throat before he exhales. His eyes are shut and she studies the darkness beneath them as she leans back into the front of her desk. "Having dreams again?"

"Just one."

"Wanna talk?" Her hands catch back against the edge of her desk, tightening there as his head lifts again. His eyes open and they're darker than she had expected, less focused.

"Nope."

"Okay, but you've gotta give me something, Gibbs. I understand that you don't _want_ to - "

"This time it's you," he murmurs as he looks up at her, his hand lifting half from the arm of the chair as a sort of visual aide. Really it just turns into a way for his knuckles to brush along her hip and she very obviously shakes his nerve by catching him still. Her fingers loop so quickly against his wrist that his head snaps up, concern brightening his eyes back up.

"In the dream?" She runs her fingertips against the pulse point of his wrist, just under the cuff of his jacket and just for a barely breathing moment before she loosens her hold. "I'm flattered, Gibbs."

"Not that sorta dream, Jack." He winces as he shakes his glance away.

"Tell me," she asks as she gives his jacket sleeve a tug, the last touch she'll allow herself before letting go. "C'mon."

"It's my own goddamn knife. The KA-BAR outta the basement. And I'm just…"

"You're what? Just what?" she prods, lifting her jaw even as she relaxes farther onto her desk. His eyes follow her movement and it's more than noticeable, his lids dipping lower as he studies her hip and then down her tensed thigh.

"M'never fast enough. Never get to you in time," he says gently, hesitantly. The caution in his tone of voice is a proverbial partner to the sigh he lets out from between his lips as he lifts his glance back to hers, blue eyes meeting brown.

She can see the combination of frustration and sadness cross over his features, the internalized guilt he's got for not saving her in his nightmares. That's when it truly hits her, the realization of how seriously he's taking it, how much it's truly bothering him. He's lost sleep and energy. He's disappointed in himself and she couldn't currently adore him more.

"What was the other dream?" Jack asks, keeping the conversation quiet. "The one that came true?"

"Ari killing Kate. Headshot."

"Wow… you're not making anything easy on me today, are ya?" She reaches for his hand again (despite telling herself not to) and is surprised to feel him spread his palm open and waiting for hers. Their hands squeeze together reflexively and she's got to lean forward to bring his attention back upward. "I'm not Kate, Gibbs."

"I know," he answers, meeting her eyes with his own. "I'm fully aware of that, believe me."

"And you sure as hell better _never_ have six AM pancakes with _my_ sister without permission."

"Have you even got a sister?"

"Not the point," Sloane throws off sidelong, waving between the two of them to put the conversation back on track. "Where does it happen?"

"In the dream? Basement."

She nods quickly, her hand stroking against his shoulder and squeezing. "Then I guess tonight we start in the basement."

***

"Rachel says that your methods are questionable."

_Psssh_. Like Rachel Cranston's opinion keeps her up at night. She shrugs it off as she follows him down the stairs, noting the steeped smell of varnish as they step into the open space.

"Yeah? Well, Rachel didn't have the stones to tell you to get bent when you called her at the asscrack of dawn." Her hand gives a shove against his side, purposely catching his attention back as she tugs at his belt. "Where? Here?"

"Bottom of the steps," he says, nodding toward the landing while he squints his eyes thinner and darker.

Jack just nods and waves him off, stepping back up the bottom stairs and onto the landing. "Grab the knife."

"_Sloane_."

"Will you just listen to me? Please? I know what I'm doing, I promise."

She sits at the base of the first set of stairs to wait, legs stretched and ankles crossed, one boot heel keeping her balanced against the landing. The air is warmer than usual and she's grateful for that, the thin silk of her shirt cool and not much shielding against the usual dampness that pulls at her when she's in his basement.

"How many weapons have you got hidden down here, Gibbs?"

"Enough," he murmurs, fingers stroking up under the workbench and catching. She watches him tug the sheathed knife loose from however it had been attached to the underside of the bench. _Hello, that's sexy_. Her smile goes brightly impressed as he turns and moves in her direction, offering the sheathed knife to her as he gets closer.

"No, sit here with me." Her head tips as she pats the step beside her, the grit of road dust and sawdust and house dust all brushed beneath her fingers.

"You can't sleep?"

"I can fall asleep." He says it forward, unable to meet the way she's turned her head to watch him, but that's okay. It gives her a chance to observe him, to watch his emotions and responses evolve. He's mildly tensed but not locked up or blocking her. "Can't stay asleep. Not after."

"Tell me?" It's a calm request, one slowly made and mostly a whisper that continues into her asking, "How's it happen?"

"I don't… I'm never here in time to see. Just find you here, bleeding."

Which would explain the guilt and self disgust she's reading off the expression on his face. She can see it flash briefly across his features, marring his mouth and tensing around his eyes before he turns his face downward and away from her sight.

"I'm already dead?"

His lashes blink fluttering and his eyes darken, head still tipped downward as she leans closer to hear his answer. "No."

That's interesting to her…

"Tell me? Or, actually," she adjusts, a hand pressing his thigh for leverage as she stands and turns back toward him, her palm then open in front of him, "show me?"

***

"C'mon," she encourages, tugging at his shirt after he's stood and it's such an intimate movement. The pungent scent of the varnish from the night before is still so strong that his stomach tenses on him.

Better the varnish than the smell of her blood again.

One of her hands lifts to take the still sheathed knife from him, her other palm cupping under his left wrist. "Where's the knife end up?"

"Bottom step."

She nods and sets it to where she'd been sitting moments before and he can just faintly smell her perfume as she turns back to him and that's when he realizes why the dream had seemed so goddamn real, every time.

It's always the known smell of her that hits him full force, smack in the emotional center.

She steps into him and it's closer than he expects, his own thoughts having distracted him entirely. He takes advantage of her nearness, though, one hand catching along her side before she can even speak, turning her entirely around. Before she can ask or argue he's got his palm pressed flat between her lower back and the wall, his body leaning hers flush. He can feel his breathing shudder, head going down as she turns her face toward his.

"I'm fine," she offers as quietly as possible, almost all breath. "No blood, no pain, nothing."

"Jack."

"Keep going," she says as she nods, her hands loose at her sides as his palm goes flat to her back, the heel of his hand digging to the left of her spine and staying there, pressed hard against her. He's guarding the non-existent injury and it feels like she knows that, like he doesn't need to explain. "It's okay."

"You keep apologizing," he explains, almost hearing the sound of her ragged and panted breathing from his dreams. "But it's not your fault."

An unintentional flinch jerks his head back and he frowns as he realizes he's stalled the way she's started to reach for him. He turns his face closer to her palm right after, leans into the way she reaches for him to try and make up for it.

He angles his head into the touch when she continues, her face turning even closer as she palms his cheek. "You keep taking the blame for your own losses when none of them - "

"_Don't_."

"You're not gonna tell me what you say in the dream, are you?" Jack asks, her jaw dropping down so that she can brush her nose against his cheek and he thinks he's already more than halfway into love with her.

Which is exactly what he's not gonna tell her yet. "It's private."

"You say it to _me_ in the dream, Gibbs." She's right, sure. But that doesn't mean he's going to change his mind. "Goddamn it, why can't you say it to me now?"

"It's different." Whisper-kissing apologies into her skin is a very different scenario than the one he's in now. He still doesn't dare explain the dream in its entirety...

"It's not. It's _me_," she near whines, getting more and more reckless when it comes to keeping her patience. "Different how?"

"_Us_."

"There's an us?" Her eyes flick brighter caramel suddenly, gilded as she nearly smirks and lifts her jaw. He can feel his own mouth twitch toward a smile as he registers what sounds like excitement, hope. "See? Dreams aren't all bad."

But the nightmares sometimes end up accidentally prophetic - and he isn't sure how many more people he can lose before he lastly loses himself.

He exhales softly, turning his mouth closer to hers as she takes a hesitant hitch of breath. "The people I love get hurt, Jack."

"I'm not hurt," she murmurs, her mouth brushing past his just close enough to make his hands flex her closer, the palm at her back driving her up into his chest while he exhales. "Just getting impatient."

"I can tell," he chuckles, letting himself forget long enough to chase her mouth with his and finally kiss her, digging her even closer as both her hands stroke up his shoulders.

And kissing her isn't nearly as rushed as he'd expected. He takes his time to nip along her bottom lip, listening to her moan as her arms loop on his shoulders. Her whole body uses him as leverage as she grows impatient, a whimper rising up her as he licks against her bottom lip. He isn't at all surprised by her fingers catching against the back of his head as she meets his tongue with her own and sighs against his mouth.

It's the soft sounding whimper she makes as both her arms encircle his shoulders that has him doubling the pressure of his hands and the weight of his mouth on hers.

He can feel her go happily pliant and loose, her body stretching into letting him have all the control as she sucks along his tongue and moans. _Jesus_, she's sexy, all heat and muscle tempered by soft warm hair and perfumed skin and he wants to trace his tongue along every curve, wants to slide his fingertips over every inch of her.

"Well," she whispers breathlessly along his lips as he slows them, "now kiss me like you mean it, goddamn it."

"M'takin' my time," he explains with laughter, voice heady with amusement but soft. He keeps the movement of his hand slow, fingertips climbing up her rib cage while the other arm curls her fidgeting still. "You need to learn some patience, Sloane."

A wide and wild grin hijacks her mouth and brightens her eyes like sunshine on copper, all sunheat and light. "You wanna teach me, Gibbs?"

He arches a brow into her suggestive teasing, leans farther forward to keep her trapped up against the wall and claimed for his own. There's promise in the quietly private way she nods and laughs at once before lifting her lips to his cheek, up his jaw, just right in front of his ear. His body relaxes gently into hers even as his shoulder tenses, her mouth pressing just below his ear.

"Rachel said I was being a coward."

Her smile as she tugs at his shirt seems reflexive but also intimately affectionate, like she finds him secretly adorable as her fingers slip up under the fabric and trace along his stomach. He flinches slightly but forces his hips forward anyhow, leaning into the touch as she fits her thigh tight between his. "I don't think this is cowardice. You're doing just fine."

"How exactly is this gonna stop a nightmare?"

"Maybe it won't," Jack shrugs off, her words purposely quiet as her fingers test how ticklish he may be. "But now your brain is always going to connect this place with a first kiss. We tackle the environment first, then the impetus for the dream."

"Which is?" he asks, voice blank.

"I think you already know." _Of course_ he does. He's self aware enough to understand his own emotional hurdles, the roadblocks he puts when heading in the direction of a possible relationship. He's also entirely aware of what a fear of loss or abandonment can do to the human psyche and sometimes those worries manifest themselves as darkened dreams. "Gibbs, if you want me to stay then I'm not going anywhere."

It doesn't scare him that sometimes she seems to read his mind… It's more comforting than expected. The fact that she can read his emotional cues while putting his clothing back in order? That she can nimbly trace along the edges of his thought patterns after teasing along his ribs? It's sexy on her…

"Stay tonight?" he asks without looking up from her mouth, not entirely sure he can meet her eyes if she's about to turn him down. He may never sleep well again. "It doesn't have to be - "

"Sure, I can keep the bad dreams away," she assures him confidently, one of her arms lowering so that she can palm his cheek and force his head upward.

Gibbs lets her lift his eyes to hers, his face relaxing into a smile as he tucks her hips closer. Her fingertips touch just under his left eye, a small sound of worry passing her teeth as she studies how visually tired he is.

He smirks into her perusal, leans his head into the way she backs her knuckles against his cheek. "Awfully sure of yourself."

"Yeah," she says and nods, self assured, "but only because I've had practice fighting off the occasional nightmare or two. I've gotten pretty good at it."

***

It's no shock to her that he falls asleep with a full cup of half hot coffee on the table, not with him. Any other man and she might have been surprised, caffeine to unconscious in less than half an hour? With Gibbs she's just mostly impressed, her fingers gentle and still as his weight settles against her and the couch cushions at once. She brushes slowly through his hair again, exhaling gently as she lifts her own cup in the other hand and takes a sip. She barely pays attention to the soccer match that's finishing up on his television, the volume down low.

He hasn't added nearly enough sugar to her coffee but she needs it to be strong and bracing, she needs it to stay awake for him, waiting.

Jack smiles against the lip of the cup as he shifts in his sleep, pleasantly inhaling the strong scent while she curves her fingertips down the back of his head.

She doesn't mind standing guard for him, ready to prove the bad dreams false, ready to prove them wrong.

Though, nightmare or not, he's gonna owe her _way_ more than just pancakes in the morning…

***

It only takes his waking against her for the scent of blood to twist around on itself, for it to evolve and bloom into something metallic and then spiced and hot. She smells like silk and heat and almond butter and the simple smile she gives him in the early stillness of morning… God, she wrecks him.

"Hey, Cowboy," she murmurs softly, her palm bracing against his forehead as he slacks into his back and stares up toward the darkened ceiling. "What're you doing awake?"

Gibbs inhales deeply, eyes shutting again as she starts teasing through his hair. His voice grits out on a whisper, tired and ragged. "Bête noire."

"Me or the dream?" she asks softly, her nails raking on his scalp and near making him purr his pleasure.

"You keep doing that and I'm gonna fall back to sleep." He can hear her laugh after he speaks, the sound of it slightly muffled as he rolls and snugs deeper into her lap, cheek pressed onto her thigh as her hand curves the top of his head.

She gives a warm tug into his hair and sighs, voice rolling warmly over him, "That's exactly the point."


End file.
